Red Velvet's Memoirs
by avatarjk137
Summary: Rotting in a cell beneath Canterlot, one of Equestria's greatest killers looks back on his life, on his rise and fall. Examines sociopathy in a love-based world, the nature of predators, potion-brewing, and interracial tensions. Rated for violence.
1. Childhood

**Disclaimer: I don't own My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic or any of its characters.**

Forgive me this verbosity, but I'm afraid my current condition is a rather… lonely one. I have neighbors, but they are poor conversationalists almost to a pony. Ergo, I have been granted leave to write my memoirs and post them on this marvelous new tool, the internet. Of course, I always prefer to psychoanalyze others, but I suppose I must focus on the only willing subject at hand to stay sharp: myself.

I suppose you all were hoping I would begin at the exciting part; however, I think it's best to move chronologically. It will provide valuable context, and besides, I wouldn't want to spoil you.

I was born Remus Burgundy Velvet, the youngest of three foals. The Velvet family, as you may or may not know, is a minor noble unicorn family from Seaddle; the head of our family is a Viscount, although I've never been near inheriting the title. We're not particularly wealthy or powerful in this day and age, but we're still known as artists and art connoisseurs. I was the only earth pony in a family of unicorns, but I received little or no special treatment to make up for my lack of magical abilities; in retrospect, this was a good thing, as I could have very easily been brought up coddled and useless. Still, I often resented my parents and older brother and sister during my last few years of colthood, and there was some friction. They were all artistically inclined in some way or another; I liked art, but I held the various sciences in high regard as well. Psychology has always appealed to me partially because it is both an art and a science. I always sought both, because it was knowledge I craved. Knowledge is, after all, power, and after my unicorn heritage and noble heritage both denied me any of the power they usually carried, is it any wonder I was looking to make up for lost opportunities? So there it is, I suppose - I've always sought knowledge as a source of power.

Maybe this will be an interesting analysis after all.


	2. The Southern Continent, Part 1

Ah, how adolescence can be such a formative time in a pony's life. That was certainly the case for me.

My family certainly wasn't as rich during my lifetime as they used to be, but they still managed to scrape together enough bits to send me off to foreign quarters. Partially, they wanted to be rid of me for a while (and the feeling was mutual), but I couldn't help but get the sense my mother still expected I would drift towards the arts after seeing the world and experiencing its wonders. She was the one who gave me a suggestion on where to go first, too - the deep plains of Equestria, where the buffalo roam. I met a friendly tribe, but found them terribly dull and moved on after only two days (although I ended up returning after I became a student of potion-brewing, as their herbal knowledge is quite advanced).

My journey got truly interesting when I visited the Southern Continent. I had hoped the zebras would be more interesting than the buffalo; they're among our closest relatives, and yet we know less about them than the other hooved races due to nothing but topographical distance. As a former teacher, that thought depresses me somewhat, but as a young traveler, it was an exciting opportunity. I remember starvation, malevolent spirits, and a vicious war between villages - most ponies don't know how blessed Equestria is - but my life was truly changed the night my zebra guide and I were set upon by strange figures in huge, imposing masks. I fought back as hard as I could - trusty survival knife clenched between my teeth, moving my neck the way my father had taught me - but we were surprised and outnumbered. I was scratched by a thorny bracelet one wore on his foreleg, and my muscles began to grow feeble. As my head hit the yellow grass, I remember watching my guide drop and burning up at the thought that unicorn magic could have won me this fight.

**By the way, if you enjoy Red Velvet here, you should probably go check out his original location - redvelvetrecalls on tumblr. He actually started as a written ask blog and, since I have years of background in fanfiction, I decided to start doing memoirs whenever I experienced a drought of questions (which is usually - drawn ask blogs have a huge edge on written ones). Between the questions he answers, occasional fanart, and even collaborative projects with other ask blogs, it's a more complete experience. In the meantime, I'll keep reposting everything I can here.**


	3. The Southern Continent, Part 2

Have we lost the impatient ninnies? Excellent. We're arriving at the meat (so to speak) of my life story, my little ponies, and I hoped to save it for those of you who exhibit patience.

I awoke under a thatched roof, muzzy-headed and weak, my hooves tied together. I was alone and helpless, but I was alive, and I intended to find out why. When one of the masked zebras arrived, I asked to know their plans, hoping that playing meek would prevent rousing her ire. It was irrelevant, though; they didn't speak a word of common Equestrian, but a guttural, rhythmic tone more akin to that of the local villagers - I was a fool to expect anything else. All she did was leave a shallow bowl of a curious brown liquid beside my head, jabber at me in her native tongue, and depart. I didn't want to trust what they served me, but subsequent visits made it clear (via kicking and gesturing) I would not be served anything else until I drank.

The Draught - and I will always remember it as The Draught, because their word for it was very close to "drot" and I used to pronounce the word phonetically as a colt - was a bitter medicine, but my mysterious captors were surprisingly generous with it, and I felt my strength return quickly after I began drinking. And even as I imbibed The Draught, I imbibed their speech with all my faculties and began to understand some of their words. Whatever exact noun they used to indicate me, they only seemed to have one of it. I wondered what had become of my guide, as I sorely missed his gifts as a translator.

It was at least five days before they would feed me the local grains to go with my liquid diet (judging by the openings in the walls which let in light), and a week after that before they removed my bindings. I thought I would be almost too feeble to stand, my muscles atrophied from my long bondage, but to my shock I felt stronger than ever - a fact I now credit to The Draught. They (a stallion in front of me and the mare who had first tended to me behind) led me to the central room of the structure, and what I saw there fundamentally altered me as a pony. The walls and floor were decorated with the hides of other zebras - as well as the solid-colored hides of two Equestrians. In the middle of the room bubbled a cauldron of what smelled and looked like The Draught - with stained, softened bones in shapes not unlike my own tumbling merrily through the boil. The third masked zebra entered from another room, her mask spattered with blood, carrying a zebra carcass with the calm dignity of a master undertaker. And above that door, one particular hide caught my eye. Zebras have cutie marks different from a pony's, you see, but they're each unique, like a signature - and I saw the signature of my translator on this freshly tanned hide. Things were becoming painfully clear to me… except for the answer to my first question - **why was I spared?**


	4. The Southern Continent, Part 3

Sorry for the delay, fillies and gentlecolts. They didn't want me to continue my memoirs, not after they saw this latest entry. But even in my current, diminished state, I'm a rhetorician of some skill, and I was able to wear them down. It's just information, after all. A confession, even. Coming clean, after all these years. Isn't Honesty one of the Elements of Harmony?

Anyway, I'm sure you've all been on the edge of your seats wondering how I escaped these masked zebra - there's really no way around it, although I detest the word - _cannibals_. Well, the short answer is that I didn't. The cannibals seemed to have judged me strong enough to work, because they set me to chores at once. For a day, I was just sweeping and tidying up, but then they also got me stirring the Draught - the vile brew that I now knew got its brown color from the aged blood, fat and marrow of zebras. Its coppery vapors made my head spin and my stomach turn, and for a while I considered running that day. _Not to eat Fish or Flesh; that is the Law._ I knew it as well as any foal, and to eat another speaking, reasoning creature was a high offense. But I didn't have the guts, or maybe I was thinking too clearly. I was fairly certain these zebras were stronger and faster than I, and I knew they had the advantages of numbers and the home terrain. Besides, I had already broken the Law without knowing it. I was already damned, so what was the harm?

Instead, I stayed with them, and drank their Draught, and ate the grains they mixed with it, eating as they did. They only slightly shifted their masks to eat, never removing them entirely. Occasionally they would eat a zebra's cooked meat, as well; the third time I saw this, they offered me some, and I accepted. I learned their language, slowly, painfully, word by word. My qualms with eating zebra flesh and drinking their blood faded with each passing day. It was amazing how quickly I grew strong again - stronger than I had ever felt in my life. The Draught, I learned, as I saw them add carefully chosen herbs to it, was not merely a dietary supplement, but a potion. Cannibalism, in every culture that has it outside of starvation conditions, is founded on the idea of absorbing the strength of the dead, and I think the Draught serves as a mechanism to make that belief reality. I carefully memorized the recipe, fascinated. I had never considered potion making - "the people's magic," as Star Swirl the Bearded famously called it.

One day, having learned enough of their language to satisfy myself, I asked one of the two mares. "Why did you not kill me?" I asked.

The mare, who normally answered to questions she understood, was silent. When I repeated the question, she left the room. I didn't push my luck. I was gaining their trust, though. I was taught to skin, tan, and prepare a zebra carcass myself, and then to create the Draught. Finally, there came a night over a month after my capture - a night of the full moon. I was told to drink with them from a special version of the Draught - a version that used fresh blood and shone crimson in the moonlight. My memories after that are… hazy. I remember my skin split open all over my body, shallow wounds across my limbs, back and face, blood dying my fur as a zebra's stripes. I remember charging into a zebra village whilst screaming, my knife in my teeth. I remember being knocked over by a zebra mare protecting her foals, wrestling the mare, my knife flashing. When my memory returned, it was broad daylight. I had no wounds. I was outside the masked zebras' hut complex. There were two dead zebras next to me, a mare and a stallion, and no masked zebras to be found. I waited there two days, but they never returned, so I departed as well, belly full, a large clay jar of freshly brewed Draught on my back. I laughed at how the pony who had left home all those months ago could never have carried it.

**He doesn't mention it explicitly, but this is when Red Velvet got his Cutie Mark - four red hearts, slightly darker in the middle and brighter at the edges.**

**Oh, and Island of Doctor Moreau reference because it seemed appropriate to an implicitly vegetarian society.  
**


	5. Canterlot Official Notice and Addendum

**Official Notice from the Canterlot Royal Office**

Those of you watching this blog are probably becoming increasingly aware of what kind of a pony Red Velvet really is. You may be revolted, angry, or even frightened for your lives, or the lives of your foals.

I'm here to put your fears to rest. Red Velvet is behind bars, and has been since long before he began this blog.

The trial was quite newsworthy at the time, although of course it has been a decade. Homicide cases are rare in Equestria, after all, and multiple homicide even more so. Red Velvet was found guilty thanks to the diligence of my mentor, Alibi, and his memory restoration spell. Princess Celestia herself ruled that Red Velvet receive a life sentence without the possibility of parole - he can't hurt anypony else ever again.

"But Alias," some of you may say, "Red Velvet is an evil genius and could escape from prison!" No he isn't, and no he can't. Because he's holed up with all the other life-without-parole violent-crime-committing ponies in the Canterlot Royal Dungeon, in the basement of the castle. He's underground, locked behind a wall of pony-proof glass, policed by the Night Guards, surrounded by fifty feet of stone, beneath the hooves of Equestria's most powerful being. I've inspected the dungeons myself. You can rest assured that he's under control, my little ponies. He's not even allowed to post asks on other pony's blogs. Besides, all the fight went out of the bastard soon after he got here. He looks half-dead, he can barely walk, he's losing patches of fur, etc. He's no harm anymore. Best behaved prisoner we've got, that's why he can do this whole blog thing at all.

I assure you once again that he's under control.

May you ever trust your shadow,

Royal Spymaster Alias.

**Official Notice Addendum**

I should also point out that nopony should take Red Velvet's blog as reliable evidence to the rumor that cannibalism is a widespread practice among zebra tribes. First of all, he's horribly untrustworthy by virtue of being a serial killer. More importantly, I took this story to some of Canterlot's best sociologists and cryptozoologists, and the general agreement is that Red Velvet probably wasn't even taken in by zebras. Certainly not by a zebra tribe; we're all in agreement that a three-pony tribe of cannibal berserker zebras is definitely not a real thing. It may have been a small band of local killers, but the Southern Continent is rife with malevolent spirits, and we think it's a likely possibility that a few of these saw the emergent sociopath in Red Velvet and gave him a push in the wrong direction. At any rate, the important thing to remember that your new zebra neighbor is NOT a cannibal - or at least no more likely to be than anypony, which is I'm sure a less than one-in-a-million chance. We've had complaints of an upswing in zebra harassment around Manehattan lately, and I've been assigned to investigate the situation personally.

May you speak with your own voice,

Royal Spymaster Alias.

**I posted these to the blog very shortly after revealing Red Velvet is a serial killer. Obviously, my experience here at FFN has influenced me greatly, because it's basically an in-story author's (or in this case, editor's) note. Alias doesn't appear in the actual memoirs until very late, but she is essentially the blog's secondary character and Red Velvet's only real antagonist figure. The two tend to bicker with each other whenever I reblog something in-character.**


	6. Where the Buffalo Roam

It seems I have some new followers. Greetings. I must apologize again about the interruptions from Alias. I'm in high spirits today - 'revitalized' would be perhaps too far, but I'm not feeling as unwell as I typically have during my imprisonment.

After leaving the Southern Continent, I traveled east toward far-off Dromedar, but I was warned away by a nomadic family of alpacas near the border. It seems there was a civil war in progress between the llama and camel races, and I decided it would be foolish to be caught in the middle of that. It was a long trip and I hated to let it go to waste, but I still got to see more of the world than most ponies. On the path home, I lost track of the roads avoiding a forest fire, and somehow my circuitous route took me back to the plains of the buffalo.

They initially kept me a bit at forelegs' length this time. I initially thought it was because I had seemed only superficially interested in them last time, but perhaps I wasn't giving them enough credit. At some subconscious level, I think they knew there was something different about me, something off. I know now that my diet doesn't affect my scent, and my remaining store of Draught didn't smell suspicious either, so I'm going to give credit to their insight.

I earned their trust quickly enough, though. I've always been a persuasive speaker, and regular use of the Draught had expanded my cognitive abilities even further. This time, I was looking for more than a few days' food and shelter, though. Having learned to make the Draught, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets potion-making could yield. I am, as I must remind you, the only earth pony in a family of unicorns. The prospect of a brand of magic that I could work was a temptation I couldn't resist. And the buffalo delivered. I learned a number of very useful concoctions from them, from a salve that numbed pain and sped up healing, to an edible paste that could keep a pony up and active all night in an emergency, to a liquid that rapidly dissolved any glue or adhesive substance (although it also causes fur to fall out on skin contact). I was worried at first that I wouldn't have the correct materials to brew these back home, but the most valuable thing I learned from the buffalo was this maxim, one which also applies to cooking - **there's more than one correct way to complete any recipe, although no two variations will yield exactly the same results.**

Eventually, though, my time with the buffalo had to come to an end, and I had decided I'd learned enough. Also, my supply of the Draught was running low, and I couldn't exactly make more right there in the middle of a village of forty buffalo five times my size. The chief wished me good luck on my journey home, and one member of the tribe even joined me - Peace Offering, a bull who was starting to show his years and who had gotten the wanderlust. What neither Peace Offering nor any other buffalo present knew was that I had one more stop to make before returning home. Nevertheless, my time with him was short but fruitful - but that's a story I must conclude another day.


	7. The Duskraptors, Part 1

Peace Offering wasn't as trusting as many of his people. He believed that I was going home, which was only half-true, but he didn't want me fetching the water or preparing food for him. I can't really blame him, considering what happened.

We were making our way through a pass in the Talon Mountains, and I tried to steer us toward the northern reaches. Peace Offering's warnings about the griffons grew more frequent and more irritating until we were about halfway north through them. I maintained that my home lay in that direction (it did, more or less). Peace Offering maintained that the Duskraptor clan of griffons made their home too close to here, that continuing further was tantamount to suicide, and that after we made camp for the night we were turning south immediately. He hadn't seen what I had, which was that a Duskraptor scout had already seen us.

I'm sure you've heard the stories about the Duskraptor clan. They're the greatest danger to ponykind within Equestria's borders. They're the sole reason the Talon Mountains are a no-fly zone. They're _horse-eaters_. Well, they're not just old mare's tales. Ere sundown, no less than six winged warriors were circling me overhead (they take their name from their preferred hunting time). Well, I was prepared. Nopony's going to catch Red Velvet without a charming gift basket ready.

When Peace Offering refused to move a single step further, I calmly and politely brought him my nearly-empty jar of Draught and set it on the ground, directly below his nose. "You'll need some of this, then," I said, removing the lid. He wrinkled his nose and looked down at it for a moment, which was plenty of time for me to draw my survival knife from its foreleg sheathe. As as he raised his head again, his ears flicking at the sound, I leaped forward and slashed his throat. He gasped and began to slouch immediately, and using my hooves, I pulled him forward and onto the jar, filling it up with his lifeblood.

When the first Duskraptor landed, his amber eyes flashing in the twilight, I had recapped the jar, and stood atop the fresh corpse, my knife still unsheathed and bloody. "I brought you a peace offering," I said, grinning around my knife. "His life for mine." I thought it was a good deal, personally - I provided a small fraction of the meat that Peace Offering contained, and there was at least a reasonable chance the griffons could get hurt or killed attacking me when I was on full alert.

If the griffon didn't agree, he was at least impressed by my bravado. He laughed, regarding me like a wonderful joke - like a foal making an impressive run at pretending to be an adult. "Why don't we ask the chief what to do with you?" he asked, his Equestrian clear and chilling.

I apologize for interrupting the story here, but it's lights-out down here in the dungeon, my little ponies, and I must rest and recuperate. That's the story of how Peace Offering fulfilled his purpose. Next chapter, I'll tell you of my time as an honorary member of the Duskraptor clan.


	8. The Duskraptors, Part 2

I suppose I should begin with some background on the Duskraptors. They're apex predators, pack hunters, dirty fighters, but rarely cowards. They have a complex mythology but no physical gods. They're generally dark grey in coat, with small crests and hooked beaks, and invariably their other colors are dark and muted. The Duskraptors are cordial with other griffon clans and encourage intermarriage and strong family bonds, but they keep no relations with non-griffons. Not all griffons live in clans, I know – some are solitary or mated pairs – but the ones I've dealt with all do. There are few sources in Equestria detailing them, and they are all inaccurate – I know, because I read all of them, and wrote one of them (_Griffons of the Stonetalons, _by "Ash Crimson," which I edited to hide all my illegal activities, at the cost of faithfully depicting my subjects). You will be learning things tonight nopony knows about the Duskraptors.

The Duskraptors took me to a cave midway up an especially impressive peak – I was carried in the talons of one warrior, Stormare, for perhaps the tensest five minutes of my life. I was escorted to Kier, their lord, immediately as promised. Kier had fur like iron and feathers like rust, piercing yellow eyes, and he was as large as some buffalo braves had been. I haven't been close to a dragon in my life, but Kier was, **is**, the largest winged creature I've ever seen; no active magic, but he's bigger and faster than Celestia. "We were watching you today," he said – to this day I do not know how the Duskraptors maintained a perfect grasp of Equestrian. "Why did you slay your companion?"

They were still watching me, I could tell – raptor eyes glared at me from the depths of the cave – and I was in no state to lie convincingly. So I told the truth. "He was an offering. I didn't expect to outfight you, so I hoped to buy my life from you."

He narrowed his eyes, rust eclipsing gold. "A foolish plan. We have no motivation to spare you. You could've spared your companion and circled around our territory, like cautious ponies do. Cautious ponies live to be old and tough." I got the sense he was using tough in the sense of a food's consistency, rather than a compliment toward their character or ability.

"I wasn't planning to pass through," I said, growing bolder with desperation. "I want to learn your ways."

"A pegasus could learn our ways, perhaps," Kier sneered. "What could you hope to learn from us, landwalker?"

"I want to learn to be a warrior," I said hesitantly. "Equestria has soldiers, but we don't have warriors. I want to stand on my own. I want to be unstoppable. I want to be on top."

"You don't really want to be a warrior," Kier said, but now he was smiling. "You want to be like me. Like the Duskraptors. Tell me what you really want to be."

I swallowed. This was difficult. I had never really opened up to anypony before, but here, like with the masked zebras, I was beginning to sense kindred spirits – and this time, we spoke the same language. "I want to be a predator," I said, and it all clicked into place. Finally, I was able to begin to relax in the griffon cave.

"My, my," said a female griffon in the shadows behind me, "you _are_ different. We've got a live one here."

"Enough, Olin," Kier said. "Landwalker, Stormare tells me you collected blood from the buffalo before killing him. Explain. Thoroughly." So I spared no detail. The southern continent, the three masks, the cannibalism, the night of the ritual, and the Draught – it all came spilling out. I believe in confession as a powerful tool of therapy, and I don't get many chances at it (like here on Tumblr, my little ponies), but this was my first good one. When I was finished, Kier was smiling again. "You will brew us this potion, landwalker, and teach us how. In return, we will make you an honorary Duskraptor, and teach you everything we can. You are small and wingless, but we'll make a predator of you yet."

Well, like my stay abroad, this tale has run longer than expected. I'll continue at a later date, my little ponies.


	9. The Duskraptors, Part 3

I suspected my induction into the Duskraptors would involve a tattoo or some other mark on my body that I would need to conceal in mixed society, but I needn't have worried. Duskraptors recognize each other with a specific bird call pattern; it took me a day or two to learn, but I eventually mastered it. In return, I started immediately using Peace Offering's collected blood to brew a king-size recipe of Draught; while a zebra caught by the Three Masks would yield enough to satisfy the four of us for two weeks, Peace Offering's blood proved to serve myself and twenty griffons for about ten days. To an extent. While the potion resulting was very invigorating – better than coffee, without any noticeable crash – I was enough of a connoisseur at this point that I knew something was wrong. I was not enjoying the full effects of this potion, and I suspect the other griffons weren't, either. I brought it up with Kier before he had a chance to express disappointment in the Draught.

"What do you think is wrong?" he asked. He was poring over an elaborate arrangement of stones on the floor of one of the deeper caverns – it formed an accurate scale replica of the Stonetalons – which turned out to be one of the best times to give him bad news, because he wouldn't pay full attention to it. Usually.

I hesitated. This would probably prove to be an extremely touchy subject. In Seaddle, where I grew up, there's a saying – "choose your horseshoes carefully when you walk into a minefield" (Seaddle, of course, known for the Jelly Land Mines of Candypalooza, which still dot some of our fields to this day). "Kier," I said, "I suspect the potion's effectiveness is tied to how closely related the drinker is to the type of creature slaughtered to power it."

His voice was like an ice pick seconds after use – sharp, hard, and freezing cold, leaving the feeling that something unpleasant was dribbling down my spine. "Are you saying I need to kill a griffon to make the real thing?"

"For griffons… yes," I said, "but they wouldn't have to be Duskraptors. For me, I think it would work better with other ponies. You might at least get somewhat better results with a lion or eagle, or maybe a manticore, compared to a buffalo…"

Kier stood up on all fours and stared down at me. "I won't spill griffon blood for a sick experiment, Velvet." (I wasn't "landwalker" now that I had become an honorary member). "But I will spill it for results. We'll get you a lion so you can test another batch for us. And with your help, we can probably swing a pony for tests on yourself. But when you say you're ready for us to kill a griffon, you'd better have all the kinks worked out, because if I don't see results from that batch, I'm demoting you back to 'dinner.'"

What could I do? I got to work on it immediately. I set aside a day each week for working on the latest iteration of the Draught, and I tended to spend evenings on other days working on potions, too. Besides, Kier was honoring his bargain. Stormare was initially skeptical that I would ever fight like a Dusktalon griffon, but he and Olin tutored me nonetheless, and my hooves and trusty knife proved an acceptable substitute for the razor-honed claws and beak of a Duskraptor. Yes, the occasional slash of a talon had to be translated into a blunt attack because my knife lacked sufficient reach, but on the whole, I was able to mimic the style properly. I have to credit their tutelage, honestly. They were ferocious and never took it easy on me, which was just what I needed. I still have a scar behind my left ear, here – just below the line of my mane – and another very nasty one at the top of my throat, thankfully hidden by the curvature of my chin as long as I don't turn my nose up _too _far at other ponies. Stormare complimented me at some point on not getting more scars.

And don't let it be said that the Duskraptors were battle-obsessed philistines. They are infamous for their danger and cruelty, yes, but there are other sides to them. Stormare had an artistry with weather control that surpassed any pegasus I've known – he occasionally showed me cloud bank sculptures of his own creation, huge pieces of fine art as transient as they were breathtaking. As for Olin… well, she was as great a lover as she was a fighter. Griffons usually mate for life, but we were both in an experimental time of our lives, and the clan seemed alright with it as long as we didn't get too emotionally invested. She wasn't beautiful, Olin – blunt beak, a grey coat dappled with muddy brown spots along her flanks and rear legs, a bit more pudge than necessary under said coat – but she was clever, possessed of a fluid grace, and powerful in _all _her movements.

What am I doing? Bragging about my conquest of a griffon queen? I'm downright ashamed of myself. But apparently, not so much so that I won't post this. I suppose when I've summoned enough contrition, I'll continue another night, my dear ponies.


	10. The Duskraptors, Part 4

As my training with the Duskraptors neared completion, they began to take me on hunts (Olin ferrying me in the air by wrapping her talons around my midsection). They even dropped me on unsuspecting prey a few times – I impressed them when they dropped me on a mountain goat and I grappled him, tumbled down a cliff with him, and snapped his neck against a rock on the way down. Poor bastard didn't even have time to plead.

One day, I was informed that I had to lead them in the hunt for ponies if I was going to use their blood for potion practice. At this point, they also explained to me exactly how close to the cave we had to be before they were allowed to hunt these ponies (according to various treaties with other griffin clans, and one ancient one apparently negotiated with Princess Luna). Brute force wouldn't suffice in these situations, at least not without some strategy to guide it. Luckily, I'm no slouch when it comes to strategic thinking.

About a week after we first discussed the subject, a pegasus mailpony was seen flying through the range on a track between the mountains that would lead him near the ancient Duskraptor boundaries. Stormare tailed him, lingering behind and to one side of him close enough that we would feel uncomfortable and try to shake Stormare by taking certain turns through the mountains. He broke off the chase just before the pegasus got to the location Olin and I had flown ahead to, just inside the territory. I was 'pinned' under a 'rockslide'. When he got close, I called out pitifully to him for help, saying I was a hiker who had gotten trapped and I had been getting ready to gnaw my own foreleg off. What manure. He bought it long enough to try moving the rock, and then I grabbed him long enough for Olin to swoop down and silence him. It was the first time I murdered my own species, although I didn't do the actual killing on this occasion or the next.

The next came almost two months later. I had spent the better part of a year with the Duskraptors by now, and I had earned their trust as much as any featherless creature ever could. But that's just a role I played. My whole life – anypony's whole life – is playing a role. So when an earth pony couple passed nearby on their way to visit a friendlier griffon clan, it was no trouble for me to brush my hair, wash the blood off my hooves, and put on the mask of the meek, polite earth pony. This time I didn't pretend to be trapped – I pretended the avalanche had buried my very special somepony! I didn't lay it on so thick this time, since I needed the couple to follow me for almost half an hour. In fact, they were starting to get skeptical towards the end. Luckily, by then they were surrounded – although they didn't know yet exactly what was circling overhead. Keep an eye on the shadows, colts and fillies; silhouettes can reveal a lot. That was a rough experience for us, actually. Killing the stallion was easy. Keeping the mare alive and quiet until I was ready to try another variation of the Draught? That was hard. I made a decision after that misadventure on the subject of keeping prisoners – I wasn't going to do it in the future. I broke that rule once, but it wasn't with a pony.

Finally, after a year's hard work, I had a result I could be proud of. I let Kier know, and he sent out Stormare and two others on a special mission. They came back the next day with a half-blind old white griffon, an exile, they said, of the Owlbear clan. I assembled the other ingredients, but the blood still went in first, even in this version, so I bent him over the cauldron and Kier slit his throat personally. I slaved over that cauldron for hours, and then jealously guarded it for the two days it needed to settle and reach peak efficiency. Finally, I had a finished version – my final draft of the Drought.

"Kier," I said, "I present to you, the Draft."

Well, that's all for tonight. Wing Power's been practicing his hate speeches all day, and I have a terrible headache. There are a lot of really interesting safeties and countermeasures in this dungeon, but the sound dampening needs work. I wish we could just soundproof Wing Power's cell entirely…nopony wants to hear that master race crap.


	11. The Duskraptors, Part 5

I had promised results within a week. Waiting two nights for the mixture to settle was rough, but those nights when the entire Duskraptor clan drank the potion, waiting for the first visible effects… that was torturous. Even that first night, when the clan had been sizing me up as a snack, hadn't been so tense. But it paid off. On the fifth day, Kier admitted to me that he felt better than he had in thirty years. Other griffons assented. The Draft was a success.

Kier took me into his private room of the caverns – the lord's cavern – and showed me one thing I had sorely missed during my travels: a large, overstuffed bookshelf. "Griffons are not known for literature, but Duskraptors at least expect our warriors to be able to read and write." He perused the second-highest shelf and selected two old, dusty tomes. "The first book contains knowledge of herbs – everything that grows in the Stonetalons, plus many from foreign highlands. The second is a book of potions."

I opened the latter first and flipped through it, scanning quickly. It was very old indeed – and the different recipes had been written by different pens, clutched by different hooves or talons, in different eras. "It's still a third empty," I said with concern and disappointment (ever the pessimist, aren't I?).

"I want you to add your Draft to this book," Kier said. Then he smiled. "Anything you can learn from these books is my gift to you, and to all the Duskraptors."

Two months later, I faced my final obstacle before being fully sworn in as a Duskraptor Warrior – a trial by combat. I was placed against Waltz, a younger member of the clan, lean and square-headed with a wide wingspan. We faced each other on a small mesa at moonrise, our shadows long and faint. Other Duskraptors perched at the edge of the impromptu arena, watching fixedly. I had been allowed my knife, as it formed the "beak" in my version of their fighting style. All things considered, I could be at a bigger disadvantage. I had feared Stormare would be my opponent. I think they had chosen Waltz because they had all grown stronger from the Draft as of late, and thought even their less impressive warriors would be enough to take me down. A foolish and arrogant decision, but there was no better time to teach these griffons to respect me. Poor Waltz had a nasty surprise waiting at my hooves.

Well, my little ponies, I keep telling myself this, but I will need to take one more chapter to wrap up my experiences with the Duskraptor Clan. Truly, this was one of the most rewarding times of my life.

**Returning readers may have noticed the new cover. It's by an artist known on deviantart as "Ravenpuff" (also her account name here, I believe) and on tumblr as "ShootingStarsAfterDark". It is, if I do say so myself, extremely choice and well-drawn.**


	12. The Duskraptors, Part 6

Waltz was in motion as soon as Kier called for the beginning of the fight. He moved sinuously forward and thrust forward with his right claw. His aim was off, and I sidestepped – into his outstretched left wing. A rookie mistake. The fight was almost over before it began, but I dodged away from a vicious follow-up left claw in time. "I don't think I'll fly in this fight," Waltz purred. "I don't want too much of an advantage."

"Don't limit yourself on my account," I drawled, stalking to the side. Waltz mirrored me, and we circled for a moment. "I have other advantages." Waltz harrumphed, but my attention was on the jagged rock just outside our 'circle'. When it was to his left, I pounced to his right, swinging my knife. He had a healthy respect for the knife, and kept well clear. That was fine; the knife was a feint, and I sprung out of the leap into another, a low shoulder tackle that connected into his chest. We rolled and broke apart.

I came up on my feet and immediately felt the sting of shallow cuts on the back of my ribs; Waltz had gotten me just a bit with both talons. "First blood," Waltz noted. "Now's your chance to surrender, or we can do this the hard way." He began to chuckle, his beak closed. "It doesn't matter; either way, you'll never be a full warrior."

"I could say exactly the same to you," I said pleasantly. "Check your shoulder." He did, and his talon came back bloody – pierced by the rock. I had spaced the roll well, although getting scratched myself was unfortunate.

Waltz growled and flicked the blood at me; I growled back as I blinked to keep it out of my eyes. "A technicality, landwalker." He crouched and pounced, and when I jumped away, he pressed his advantage with his wings before switching back to his claws. He was using his wings a lot for a Duskraptor, and I began lashing out with the knife to punish the tactic. He stopped gaining ground, but he didn't really start losing ground until he saw the wet shine of something clear on my blade. He took a big step back and snarled. "Poison on the knife? You little bastard!"

I smiled and advanced, lashing out again with the knife. He kept losing ground, unsure of how best to deal with the tactic. Even a seasoned fighter has trouble disarming a knife-wielding killer without being cut. Finally, he saw an opportunity, grabbing my mane (long and wild after months with the griffons) with one talon and slapping the knife away with the other. He grinned triumphantly and raised his paw again.

I found my opening and went for it, slamming my right forehoof into his wound as hard as I could. He yelped and stumbled back, dropping me, then he stood for a second, his facial muscles spasming. Finally, he collapsed in a heap, shrieking. "Poison on my hoof," I said simply, and trotted over to my knife, retrieving it. He looked up at me in pain and fear as I returned. "Calm your wings," I grumbled. "The knife has the antidote. I'll be happy to administer it… as soon as you surrender." Waltz wordlessly raised his good foreleg and let it drop. I glanced at Kier, who nodded, and began applying the antidote.

"This burns like the fires of Tartarus," Waltz gasped. "What is it?"

"Actually, it's called Fires of Tartarus," I explained. "I got it from a book of potions from your own tribe. It's a neurotoxin, I think – it overloads your nerves, hence the spasms and the intense pain. I got some into your bloodstream, so you'll be in bad shape all night."

"I should've flown against you," he mumbled dully.

"Should've, would've, could've." Waltz set a precedent that night – that anypony who underestimates me regrets it.

I think I'm the only pony to have become a warrior of this particular griffon clan. It was quite an accomplishment, and I think if I hadn't already figured out my calling in life, I might've found myself with a griffon Cutie Mark. As it was, though, I stayed a month or so longer and then left. "The Stonetalon Peaks are filled with predators," I had said to the clan on the eve of my departure. "But Equestria needs more." I felt a remarkable warmth from the 'Huzzah' they gave me. They really meant it.

"You'll always be welcome on this peak," Kier said.

"And any of you can seek me out whenever you wish," I replied. It was just a pleasantry, really.

"Never forget who you really are," Olin said with a smile.

"Stay at the top of the food chain," Stormare advised.

"Stay low," Waltz told me. "You're small, even for a pony. It's not a handicap, it's an asset. Get under your foes, and you'll have them."

The Stonetalon Griffons and I will always call each other friends. I think the real reason I left them was because I knew this, and it troubled me. I knew friendship was supposed to be a good thing, but whenever I looked at them… I don't know. I just felt empty inside.

I feel a headache coming on. Goodnight, my little ponies.

**And that brings the Stonetalon arc to a close! Next chapter, Red Velvet returns home!**


	13. Going Home Again, Part 1

Thank you all for your patience with me. I was having some difficulties concerning my health, and I had a troubling visitor (don't ask who, as I've decided to protect her privacy). Luckily, some ponies were asking about my neighbors, which made it easy to write – it's hard for them to be far from my thoughts when I can just look up and see them. Now, back to my memoirs.

In a few days' time, I was back at the outskirts of Seaddle. I must've been quite a sight to the local ponies that morning: fur dirty and matted, mane long and wild, hooves unclipped and sharp, laden with mysterious jars. At least I'd had the foresight to wash off all the animal blood from my face the night before in a river; that part would be much harder to explain. I spared my family the curiosity, though, timing my arrival so that I'd be out of the shower before I thought any of them would be back. I even had time to stow my potions ingredients, file down my hooves, and go see a barber before my parents returned.

Actually, my sister was the first to walk through the door. Black Velvet is, like me, small, sharp-featured, and named for the color of her long, straight mane. She has our father's olive green fur and silvery eyes. She was always the socially awkward one of the family, mercurial and foul-mouthed, but she's a kind pony at heart – my complete opposite. She's become quite a painter over the years, although she was struggling for work back then, and she's the only one to have kept in contact with me after my conviction; keeping in contact is very important to her. I think when she walked in and first saw me in the living room, enjoying the family phonograph for the first time since leaving, she said something like "WHAT THE BUCK?! Three years and not so much as a letter?! We thought you were dead somewhere!" I more clearly remember that she wouldn't stop punching me in the shoulder.

My parents arrived together not long afterward. Velveteen, my father, is a painter and a carpenter, although he's retired now. He's tall and lean and has the upward-curving muzzle typical of my family, which looks odd with his build. He's always been sort of melancholy, too; I think he always blamed the Velvet family's state of decline on himself. He built a lot of set pieces for plays, which is how he met my mother, Hamartia. She's short and solid, white-coated and flaxen-maned, and rose through the ranks of the theatre world to direct at Seaddle's most prominent playhouse. She's quite old now, but still razor-sharp, and still comes out of retirement to direct a play that catches her eye. They were overjoyed to see me, and my father insisted we all go out for a nice dinner immediately to celebrate. My mother and I gently persuaded him to wait until we could get my brother involved as well.

Velvet Rope, my older brother, had evidently moved out in the years since I left and lived on the other side of town. He's the biggest pony in the family, with a cream-colored coat and a bushy, charcoal-colored mane that he wears short; he looks nothing like me, except that we both have the same sort of faded color patch on our muzzle. Velvet Rope is an agent for actors and models, and he's pretty successful – more like our family's old glory than the rest of us. He had apparently moved in with a mare friend of his, but nothing came of it; I suspect he's gay, not that there's anything wrong with that. Kind of sad that he's in the closet, actually. Anyway, Velvet Rope and I respected each other, but never cared much for each other; he cut all ties with me before my trial had even begun, which wouldn't annoy me except that he had only done it as a matter of reputation.

I've taken up more time than I intended just describing my family, I'm afraid. The next segment of my story will cover my time with them, and why I soon left home for good.

**Sorry for the absence, guys. I'm back now, and I'm gonna have a side-story featuring Red Velvet in the present day acting more in the role of his original inspiration - Hannibal Lector. Look for another Red Velvet story starting later this week!**


	14. Going Home Again, Part 2

Hello, my little ponies. I'm in a rather good mood tonight. I figured out a few more functions of my laptop, and I've come to grips with my fatherhood – which was confirmed to me recently by a reliable source. To be more precise, I've come to grips with both the aspects of fatherhood I will not experience – my daughter's doing well enough on her own, it seems – and those that I will experience – I will write my parents tonight and assure them, without naming any names, that the Velvet genes will be passed on at least ONE more generation. My father was awfully disappointed that none of us had foals, although I'm sure I'm not his first choice for passing on the bloodline.

Speaking of my family, I've been dwelling on them. Those first few nights back were wonderfully nostalgic – arguing with my sister, helping with the cooking, my mother preparing my old favorite alfalfa recipe – but things quickly began to chafe between us. The quarrels that had separated us in my adolescence, before my journeys, had been forgotten, but they were still there, waiting for us to rediscover them. It was in no way immediate, but it became apparent to me that staying with my family would become an issue. Ergo, I immediately began to seek out another reason to leave the home – higher education.

It seemed natural to want to go to college. I had developed a distaste for most menial jobs. My new passion didn't exactly pay well. I didn't have an exact job in mind at first, so I decided to enter as an undeclared major (often looked down on as a "blank flank" degree, but it made sense for me) and see what fit. I sent out several applications, although I knew I couldn't afford any huge establishments like Stallionford. Even for a less famous university, I expected I'd have to work my way through.

Well, I was accepted everywhere I applied – a full passport complements high grades nicely. I eventually chose the West Canterlot Academy of the Arts – one of the newer schools in Canterlot, it was starting to develop a positive reputation but wasn't really established nationally yet. Also, it was far from my family, which was sounding increasingly attractive. I did run into an interesting roadblock – real estate in Canterlot is very expensive, and I simply couldn't afford to live there – but there was a simple solution. I did as many of Canterlot's working-class ponies do: I bought a flat in Baltimare near their train station, which is only a single stop down the tracks from Canterlot.

So it came to pass that late that summer, I left home for good (I returned a few times on holiday, of course, but I never returned to _live _at my parents' house again). I knew what to expect with long goodbyes from my family, this time – a stiff farewell from my brother, a mercurial shoulder-punch from my sister, a warm reminder that I'd always be welcome in her house from my mother, my father bawling his eyes out. I was struck by how little they had changed over the past three years – and how much I had changed while I was away. Or was I wrong? Did they see me for anything near what I was? Did they even see that I was fundamentally a different pony than the one they said goodbye to last time, or were they thinking the same thing about me? Maybe we're all changing, all the time, and we're all just too self-absorbed to notice it in each other except when the change becomes physical. I didn't look any different, except that I had a shiny new watch and I had enough luggage to require a wagon this time.

Well, look at me babble. Before I leave this story off again for the night, I thought I should share my brief anecdote. The night before I would arrive in Baltimare, I caught a rabbit. I should note that I had caught several small animals and eaten them during the trip – I was tired of maintaining the appearance of a vegetarian in front of my family, and besides, free food. This time, though, I caught the rabbit in a trap that wouldn't harm it, and I put it in a cage to keep. I had noticed that my flat allowed small pets, and although I've never been one for pets, it seemed practical to keep a few rabbits around. They're cheap to feed and they breed quickly – so I would have a steady supply of meat without having to resort to the highly suspicious activity of bringing in regular carcasses (I ate meat regularly before my arrest, but ponies were neither my most often-consumed meat nor even my favorite). If anybody asked about my 'hobby' of rabbit breeding, I could say I was using it as a minor source of side income selling them as pets. Easy and practical. That's my lesson for tonight, everypony – plan ahead.

**Did I say "later this week?" I meant... I don't even know. He references it at the beginning of the next chapter. I'll post the side story after I post that.**


	15. Small Horse on Campus, Part 1

Sorry for the delay, my little ponies. For a while, I had a terrible writer's block about the impending subjects of my writing. Then, just as I found inspiration, I lost communication – the internet connection was shut down around here for a few days, as there was suspicion of a changeling spy among the guards and the dungeon went into full lockdown. Crafty little monster – he went through several disguises before he was caught, and he came up with a devilishly clever way of hiding the originals. I don't normally care for changelings, but against my jailors, I was almost cheering for the little guy. I'll pass the whole story along to you soon enough.

But you don't want to hear about writer's block. You want to hear about my life as a part-time college student, part-time sous-chef, and part-time serial killer. At least, I hope that's what you want to hear about because otherwise you've taken a dreadful wrong turn at some internet link or another. Well, as I suppose I just revealed, I took a job as a sous-chef at a bistro. I thought it suited me – it was the best-sounding job I qualified for, and I've always been a bit of a… well, not exactly a gourmet, more of a general 'foodie'. Besides, I told the manager I had learned a few recipes and even some rudimentary potion-making in foreign lands, and that was technically true.

I would wager a hundred bits that many of you are horrified right now, assuming I fed meat to unwitting restaurant patrons. Well, I didn't, for several reasons. First, it would be impractical and a waste of resources to smuggle in meat. Second, if I'm going to experiment with a recipe, I want an honest and intelligent test subject who can pick my brain, and I, his – so it's pretty much just me. Finally… why would I go lying to random ponies about what they're eating for no reason? Why build their carrot soup on pegasus-wing broth? I'd like to think I'm amoral, not immoral. I'll do something society frowns upon if it's more convenient for me than the alternative, or offers a benefit no accepted alternative will – but I don't see the point in violating society for its own sake. Maybe it's worth a cheap laugh or two, but I was a busy stallion at the time with better things to do.

Classes, for example. I spent my first year just fulfilling general education requirements. Have you ever tried to juggle a full course load (I was not being entirely accurate when I said I was a 'part-time' student), a 25-hour-a-week job, and building a social life to make yourself appear normal, all while cooking for yourself and hiding evidence of regular illegal activity? It's not easy. I was using a stamina-and-mental-acuity-enhancing potion, and I still only did a passable job at the 'social' life thing (I kept forgetting to hold onto new friends so that they became good friends, so I wound up with an assortment of acquaintences and a famine of friends).

Two classmates from my Composition 1 course stuck out, though. This basic writing course had smaller class sizes and more cooperative work than my others that semester, so it was a matter of course (so to speak) that I got to know my fellow students better in there. The student body was, on the whole, what I expected: slightly skewed toward unicorns compared to other races, but not quite as much as Canterlot proper; mostly smart, liberal-minded ponies of an almost even gender distribution depending on major; some blank flanks even at this adult age (all of those were undeclared majors like myself, although I knew other undeclared majors who had Cutie Marks as well). It was by chance as much as anything that the two pegasi I was paired with for the third and fourth weeks of class were both so important to my life.

The first pegasus was a brawny stallion named Fleetwings whom I disliked from the start. His fur was shaggy and his wings were long-feathered, his whole body a deep, vivid indigo except for his iron-grey mane and tail and the silver star marking on his forehead. His eyes were an equally bright and striking silver, and their piercing quality lent his casual insults extra weight. Fleetwings was large and strong and only at the college because he was somebody's nephew, but he was in many ways intelligent as well. He was a bully, but a rare breed, and I think I underestimated him until I noticed that unlike many bullies, who would look at their 'friends' after lobbing an insult, searching for approval, Fleetwings kept his silver eyes locked on target in a challenging stare. He was out to destroy his target through their self-esteem, he was good at it, and the psychology classes he was taking were only making him better. I never grew to like him, but Fleetwings actually inspired my profession. Rivalry can be good for you.

Our third partner was a pegasus mare named Sola Ray; you may remember I mentioned her, and yes, she became my fiancée later on. I sensed a kindred spirit in her, and in a sense, she was – no, she wasn't a sociopath, a cannibal, or a serial killer… she was another non-unicorn born into a unicorn family. Sola Ray had downy, cream-colored fur, banana-yellow eyes, and a long, luxurious mane and tail in a grapefruit-like shade of red-orange that also rimmed her feathers (in retrospect, the breakfast-related affectionate nicknames I used to give her seem pretty twisted, but I assure you I didn't intend to eat her from the start). She had strong wings, but she always seemed a bit uncomfortable with them, unfolding one at a time and stretching it until you could hear the soft cracks and pops if you were only a few feet away. She was one of the most opinionated ponies in the college, never afraid to make a bold statement that would anger some of our classmates. We hit it off from the beginning and became friends, although I didn't approach her romantically until near the end of next semester – and even then, we took it slowly, as neither of us liked the idea of being tied down at first.

I'm sure many of you already have deduced exactly how the introduction of these two ponies into my life factor into my story. However, you will have to wait to hear your speculations confirmed or denied. Until next time, dear readers.


	16. Small Horse on Campus, Part 2

Good evening, dear readers. I hope you've all been in a pleasant state. I'm not feeling any better tonight, but on the other hoof, I haven't been feeling worse for a change. That's always good. I hope everypony enjoys Nightmare Night. You'd catch me there if I was running free, enjoying the festivities, handing out candy… maybe I'd dress up as a Royal Guard.

I've been dwelling on those first weeks of getting to know Sola Ray. Actually, to be fair, I was dwelling more on Fleetwings, who didn't stay in my life nearly as long but occupied more of my attention when he was around. What can I say? My condition makes it hard to dwell much on somepony I'm attracted to. It also makes it hard to hold a normal grudge. A rivalry, however… now that's an interesting proposition.

I didn't actually have much to correct in Fleetwings' paper when we edited each others' work. He had a pretty good grasp of spelling and grammar, so I mostly just picked a bit at his ideas and offered possible alternatives to some phrases – relatively big-picture stuff. He didn't help me at all, though, beyond the bare minimum. When I confronted him over it, he brushed me off, and I was prepared to let that be the end of it. It was around this time, though, that he started calling me "Bambi." He'd been trying out nicknames, and finally found one that got under my fur, a reference to my relatively delicate facial features – my curved muzzle and ears in particular.

Mind you, I still wasn't planning to kill him – I'd never killed anypony I'd known the name of before, except Peace Offering and one of the travelers from the mountains, and I'd planned to kill them before I knew their names. Killing some ne'er-do-well for revenge wasn't in my MO at the time, so why would I seriously consider it? I was, however, giving serious consideration as to how I might humiliate Fleetwings a bit, perhaps in public – just enough to knock him down a few pegs and get him on the defensive. Hopefully then he'd leave me alone.

I decided to learn Fleetwings' routine by casually tailing him for a while, and I found him to – unsurprisingly – be a regular on the athletes' field. Like many pegasi, he was a sporting renaissance pony, showing some skill and interest in any ball he could get his hooves on. So I brushed up my own game, and I challenged him to a game of badminton after class the next time I saw him. I didn't want him thinking I was just trying to be friendly, either, so I casually mentioned a wager of 50 bits, enough to be material but not enough to be an issue even for us poor college students. Fleetwings was, unsurprisingly, incredulous. A friendly game was one thing, but for an Earth pony to challenge a pegasus in a competitive fashion to any competition where mobility was an issue… it was practically unheard of. And coming from me, small for any adult pony and remarkably so for an earth pony stallion, well, it was almost an insult. He couldn't refuse, either, not when it was his pride on the line and an easy 50 bits to score. He told me that if money was on the line, he'd be using his wings, and I responded that I expected nothing less.

"Why badminton?" He asked me, and I shrugged and told him. My family being old money, even if they no longer really _had_ any old money, they were into backyard activities like this. Badminton had been the game I'd learned best as a foal (aside from croquet, which had no athletic value). But that was immaterial; the fact was we had a game of badminton set for that weekend, and everypony around us had seen the scrawny earth pony challenge a huge pegasus athlete with obvious confidence and intent to win. News travels fast, of course, and there was quite a crowd come Saturday morning. I grinned and picked up my racket; it wasn't much heavier than my knife, and I would swing it with every bit as much speed and precision. The match, I expected, would only be a formality.


	17. Small Horse on Campus, Part 3

"I don't know what you hope to accomplish here, Bambi," Fleetwings told me as we began. "Let's get this over with." Everypony, of course, expected he'd have no trouble defeating me at badminton. It was nigh-impossible to score against a pegasus in this sport, their maneuverability was too good and the birdie moved too slowly. He'd just wait me out and score whenever he had an opening. That was how he expected things to go, at least; I had other plans. My intention was to surprise him with my speed and agility – there would be very few openings for him to score in, and I'd wait for him to get sloppy or tired and take him to the cleaners.

The reality was a little different than what either of us planned. My true nature, of course, threw a wrench in Fleetwings' plan, but I wasn't expecting the pegasus to have the stamina of a farm-raised earth pony, and I certainly wasn't expecting him to be the sort who got more focused and serious when his tail was to the wall, his form improving steadily in the face of my early advantage. I scored a few early points on him, but once he realized they weren't flukes, the birdie began to go very long periods of time before touching the ground – one particular serve took us ten minutes to score on. The situation had gradually reversed the crowd's expectations – I was the one who seemingly couldn't be scored upon, and he was the one trying to tire me out or frustrate me to score an opening. I didn't mind the stream of trash talk he began to spew forth as the game progressed, but I wish his focus on insulting me had affected his ability to focus on the game just a little.

Eventually, he did tire, but he put a strain on me first. I daresay I would've worn out first if the particular batch of Draft I'd been using at the time hadn't been made from an earth pony. The pegasus blend gave me even more agility, but that wouldn't have helped me as much as the stamina boost did. The game ended 21-15, over four hours after it had begun. It was now the hottest part of the day, and the only ponies who had stayed for the whole game were Sola Ray, some of Fleetwings' thick-skulled buddies, and a few ponies with absolutely nothing better to do. Sinking wearily out of the air, Fleetwings spat out his racquet and stomped the birdie flat. "That'll cost you extra," I said brightly, sweating hard but still breathing well.

Fleetwings was in somewhat worse shape after the long game, greedily sucking in huge gasps of air, sweat glistening off his coat. "Wow… you really are something, Red. Maybe your parents should've named you Shuttlecock."

The jab drew chuckles from the remaining crowd, but as usual, Fleetwings kept his eyes on me, savoring my reaction. It was extreme irritation, as you might imagine. So much for humiliating him. "Just give me my bits, if you have them." To my surprise, he did. He counted them out right in front of me, then offered them on extended wing.

As I took them in my mouth, he suddenly shoulder-barged me, knocking me to the dirt. The assault took me by surprise, and I spat out the money as I hit the ground; sure enough, a breeze blew much of it away before I could pin it down with a hoof. Fleetwings locked eyes with me again and spat out a "later, freak," before flying off.

I had hardly spat out the dirt before Sola Ray appeared, offering to help me up. I stood up on my own and thanked her awkwardly. "Uh… here," she said, and extended a wing to reveal the money that had blown away. I thanked her again, more warmly, and tucked the money into the saddlebag I had used to bring the badminton equipment. "He's really an ass sometimes," she blurted out, glancing around to see if she had offended any donkeys within earshot. "You were both amazing, though." She paused again. "You knew you could beat him from the beginning, though. Did you have some kind of haste enchantment put on you?"

Sola Ray was a smart one. I'd have to tread carefully around her. Luckily, I've had a lifetime of practice lying, and the sociopathy helps me lie without any tells. "Just lots of practice," I told her, "and vitamins every morning." Then I decided, as long as I was lying to her, to tell her that I was going to shrug off Fleetwings' last bit of cruelty. He could enjoy his last laugh, and I would be happy with my legitimate victory. She left, satisfied.

Of course, the truth was now I _had_ to kill Fleetwings.


	18. Small Horse on Campus, Part 4

How's the weather treating my dear followers tonight? I understand winter is approaching Equestria and most of the rest of the world. We don't feel the seasons much down here in the sunless dungeon, but I think the chill of the stone does get a bit deeper in the winter months. So many long nights with only the lingering heat of the computer and my memories to keep me warm… yes, let's return to those memories, shall we?

I spent a long time planning Fleetwings' death. I didn't actually kill him until soon after the next semester had started – I wanted to wait as long as I could before committing the act, so nopony would hold our little competition fresh in their mind when he went missing. Sadly, my dwindling Draft supply would only last two weeks into the term, so I had a deadline – so to speak. Starting after resolving to kill him, I carefully studied his habits, and I took special care to learn about where he lived – luckily for me, it was a simple apartment block meant for students living just off-campus, and not a cloud building of any sort.

One evening, I arrived at Fleetwings' domicile, towing a wagon containing a wooden crate about my own size. I was dressed in the simple hat and jacket of a FedEquus uniform, one I had stolen a year before and filed away under 'things that would be generally handy to possess.' I shifted the crate onto my back, prepared my weapon, marched the last few steps up to the door, placed the crate down, and knocked. "Delivery," I called, carefully mixing disaffectedness and volume in my voice.

When Fleetwings answered the door, he threw it immediately open with his wing. No sense of caution toward strangers, that one, but I admired his confidence. "Yeah, what is it, I'm heading to a party later," he said. Perfect. He hadn't recognized me yet, so now was my chance to 'recognize' him first.

"Deliv- ohhhh, hey," I said, my tone shifting to mock surprise and embarrassment – no young stallion wants his rival to see him at his low-wage job. "Hey, Fleetwings… fancy seeing you here."

"Bambi? This is your day job?" Fleetwings chuckled. "Sola said you were a chef." He grinned. "Last night."

"Not anymore," I lied, rolling my eyes. To be fair, he was probably lying too – Sola had told me during the previous semester's finals week that their recent first date would also be their last. I held up a clipboard in one hoof and pulled out a pen, holding it in my teeth. "Sign here."

"What's in the crate?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

I shrugged noncommittally. "No idea. It's paid for. Sign and it's yours." He obediently took the pen and clipboard (holding the latter in his wing) and started to sign. That's when I leapt over him, twisting my body, and pulled the rope taut against his throat.

Ahh, that last thought left me nice and cozy. Goodnight, my little ponies.


	19. Small Horse on Campus, Part 5

Good evening to all of you little ponies, and happy Hearth Warming season. Before I return to the story I seem to have left off at the climactic moment of, I should answer a question that I'm sure has been niggling at the back of all your minds. 'Red,' you no doubt think to yourselves, 'why strangle him? Why not simply run your knife through his taut, stupid neck?' Your idea, I realize now, would've been simpler and better. Strangling is not a sure thing, even with the rope tied tight around my wrists, and if I had slipped up even a little, he could regain enough use of his throat to call for help. But I was a young stallion, and reckless. I thought maybe strangling would be even more fun than throat-slitting, and the potential to leave victims alive a while longer after just choking them into unconsciousness seemed valuable. Who hasn't experimented a little in their youth?

Anyway, by the time Fleetwings understood he was being attacked, I had secured every advantage. The rope was wrapped around his neck, and I was straddling him behind his wings. My momentum was carrying us back into his house, and I had even caught the front door with my tail and pulled it shut – I wouldn't let him scream, but the banging around could still prove problematic if his door remained open. He attempted a hacking cough, his throat bulging grotesquely against the cord, but even that was beyond his ability right now. "What's wrong, Fleetwings? At a loss for words?" I chuckled.

In response, the pegasus did what pegasi do – he engaged his wings, swinging them back to batter me. It was an awkward angle for him, but he still managed to hit my outer forelegs, shoulders and face hard enough to hurt them. I instinctively bit down on one of his wings, and the other propelled madly, lending enough force to his staggering that he was able to slam me into a wall headfirst. The room swam for a second, and it was all I could do to hold on to Fleetwings' neck; as it was, my lower body slipped off his back. Luckily, before I unclenched my jaws, their initial clench and the impact had done a number on his wing, twisting it and fracturing a bone as well as tearing the skin.

"You're a persistent one," I growled, and yanked his head as it tossed and turned; with my own body slipping off his, and his body imbalanced by wild wing flapping, I was able to drag us both to our sides on the ground. Now free to use my legs as I pleased, I slammed a rear hoof deep into his injured wing and was rewarded with more cracking noises. Fleetwings thrashed hard – I can't imagine why we would take that personally, but he did – and I obliged the reaction by driving my hoof into his other wing the same way. That took the best of the fight out of him. He struggled back to his hooves, dragging my weight back up with him, but I knew there would be no more impacts against the wall hard enough to draw blood from me.

Speaking of which, a trickle of blood from my forehead had found its way into my eye. I tossed my head as if that would remedy the situation and slid my own rear hooves back under my body, keeping him from getting far in any one direction. "You probably think this is over Sola Ray, or maybe I just want revenge for your bullying. Well, you haven't exactly done yourself any favors, but neither of those two things is the reason I'm here for you now." His struggles were starting to slow; he was having more and more trouble keeping his balance. "I have to kill SOMEpony, for reasons that needn't concern you, but I don't think I chose you just because I couldn't choose nopony." His hooves slid off-kilter for the last time; all he could manage now were weak, aimless struggles. "It's because you're strong. You're the strongest, at least the strongest one who had made himself obvious to me. You are the Alpha here, and that makes my victory so much sweeter." Finally, Fleetwings went entirely limp. "Whoops. Wouldn't want to kill you just yet. I've got one more thing to show you."

I let Fleetwings fall, untying one end of the rope from my right forehoof. As I retied it around Fleetwings' ankles, I looked around for his heavy bag – I had remembered seeing it when I scoped out his house. It was right in the living room where I had remembered it. Perfect. I dragged my latest victim over to the bag, unclasped it from its anchor point on the ceiling, and slung him up in its place. I had to be careful to keep Fleetwings belly-down – his wing was bleeding a little, and I didn't want to get blood anywhere if I could help it.

As I searched Fleetwings' kitchen for his biggest big pot or jar with a lid, I caught a sight of myself in the sink's reflective surface and flinched. My mane was a mess, and the blood had trickled past my eye almost to my mouth. I grabbed a paper napkin, dampened it, and carefully wiped off my face, VERY careful not to get my own blood anywhere it could be traced. For good measure, I ate the napkin; it was evidence, after all. This was the first time in years, by the way, that I tasted my own blood – and I realized it had taken on a sour note. Over the following years, my blood has become more and more sour to my tastes – a side effect, I am sure, I can attribute to the Draft.

Anyway, when I returned with the pot to place under Fleetwings' head, he had begun to awaken. I tapped him on the shoulder. "Awaken, young stallion. I'm not quite through with you yet." The pegasus cringed, no doubt in pain, as he awoke. He tried to croak out some sort of recognition – perhaps 'Bambi', or maybe he had finally decided to call me by name. "One last thing: watch yourself bleed to death." NOW I slashed his throat; his neck went limp without the muscle he used to pull it forward, and he could only stare down into the pot, even as blood started to trickle off his chin and stream into the pool. "Stare into infinity." He died in a few minutes. And just like that, I had killed an Equestrian, on Equestrian soil, in cold blood. I had committed the first of the seven murders I'd be found guilty of. And I felt pretty damn good.


End file.
